The Heart of the Matter
by scrub456
Summary: ***SPOILERS for s4.e1: The Six Thatchers*** It's been six years since that day at the aquarium. Six years since "Norbury" became Sherlock's defining failure. Six years since John Watson decided he'd had enough. One phone call, six years later, changes everything.
1. Emergency Contact

***Author's Note***

I wasn't going to do this. I wasn't going to write a response fic until I had seen all three episodes of the new series. But this idea came, and I decided to flesh it out a bit. This story is set six years post the events of series 4, but with only the knowledge of episode one to work with. So, definitely not canon at all.

* * *

"Is this Mister Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock frowned at the unfamiliar voice and checked the caller ID again. _University College Hospital._ "This is he."

"Mister Holmes, we have you listed as the emergency contact..."

"Mycroft," Sherlock breathed and pushed himself up from his crouch over the body. He waved Lestrade off and paced to the next room.

"I'm sorry?"

"My brother. Holmes. Mycroft Holmes?"

"I'm sorry sir, there seems to be a misunderstanding. We have you listed as the only emergency contact for Mister John H. Watson."

 _John._ Sherlock's breath caught. The world around him ground to a halt, the cacophony of sounds related to an active crime scene, the over-stimulating visual cues, someone calling his name, it all collapsed down to a single pinprick of light in vast cavernous darkness. In the next breath every sensation, every sound crashed back down on him, and every scenario, every variable raced through his mind. Lestrade was in front of him, his brow creased in concern, repeating his name.

"There has to be a mistake," Sherlock rasped.

"I know it may be difficult to hear that someone you care about is unwell sir, but I assure you..."

"No! You don't understand. He doesn't want... It's a mistake. He... He forgot to change it." Blinking rapidly, Sherlock turned his back to Lestrade.

"We have his marital status listed as widower, and he's supplied no next of kin."

"His sister?" Sherlock swallowed hard.

"No, no one. Sir, you aren't required to come. If there's someone else you'd like to contact..."

"No! No, I'm coming. I... I'm coming." He disconnected the call and tangled his fingers in his hair for a brief moment as he tried, unsuccessfully, to control his breathing.

"Sherlock, what's the matter? What's happened?" Lestrade rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, only to have it shrugged away immediately.

Schooling his features into a close approximation of detachment, Sherlock turned quickly and brushed past Lestrade. "John's in hospital," he replied flippantly as he buttoned his coat and flipped the collar up.

"Wha- hold on. John. John Watson?" Stammering, Lestrade ran to catch up to him.

"Brilliant, detective inspector. It's shocking they passed you up, _again,_ for that promotion," Sherlock snipped as he shoved past the officers guarding the front door of the flat.

"Oi!" Lestrade sounded truly insulted, but it did nothing to keep him from following Sherlock out into the frigid late afternoon. "You and John haven't..."

"We have not," Sherlock held out his hand for cab.

"Well, what's happened?"

Sherlock paused and glanced down at his mobile, before shoving it into his pocket. He hadn't asked. _Idiot._ "I don't know."

"Is John okay?" Lestrade persisted, stepping directly in front of Sherlock once more.

"I _don't_ know." Sherlock had the car door open before the vehicle had come to a complete stop.

"Where's Rosie, Sherlock?"

"I..." Exhaling deeply, he turned to avoid Lestrade's gaze. He hadn't even thought about John's daughter. His shoulders drooped and he shook his head.

"Just, call me, yeah?" He pushed Sherlock into the cab. "I'm sure everything will be fine."

"You have no way of knowing that," allowing himself one moment of self doubt, Sherlock looked up at Lestrade. In that moment, he looked so young, so unsure, it nearly cracked Lestrade's resolve.

Clearing his throat, Lestrade jerked his head back toward the house. "The case?"

Grateful for the easy out, Sherlock took a deep breath and steeled himself for what was to come. "It was an accident."

"What? No, it couldn't..."

"Look at it again, Lestrade," Sherlock slammed the car door but tapped the window as a thought occurred. "Shoe strings!" He shouted as the car pulled away.


	2. Watson, J

*** A/N ***

And here we come to the angst bit, as Sherlock handles emotions from the past poorly.

* * *

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sherlock was counting the steady ticks of the second hand ( _two hundred twelve... two hundred thirteen..._ ) on the analogue clock that seemed oddly out of place surrounded by the most recent advancements in medical science. He blinked and let his gaze refocus on the neat letters scrawled in cheerful green marker on the white board attached to the door. _Watson, J._

"...Mister Holmes?"

Sherlock blinked and turned to face the patient liaison. _Thirty-two. Single. No. Divorced. No children. Two dogs... And a cat..._

"As I was saying, he really was very lucky," her smile was warm. Genuine. She was probably very good at her job.

Casting a sidelong glance at the white board, Sherlock read through the sparse notes once more. _Myocardial infarction._ A heart attack. "His heart stopped," Sherlock glared at the woman before him. "That's not very _lucky,_ now is it?" Said with more venom than was strictly necessary.

"Only briefly. It was... fortunate that his daughter's teacher was nearby and has been trained to use rescue CPR. The medics didn't even need to use the defibrillator."

"His... His daughter. Rosie? She saw John die?"

"Well, she was there, yes. But I assure you, Mister Holmes, Mister Watson is doing quite well..."

"Doctor," Sherlock seethed.

"I'm sorry, do you wish to speak to..."

"John. He is a _doctor._ "

"Oh, oh yes, I see that," the liaison flipped through the pages on her clipboard. "My mistake," she chirped.

Sherlock grimaced in response. "And is not the heart ceasing to function the very definition of death?"

"Well, yes, I suppose..."

"So in fact, John Watson's daughter watched her father die? Regardless of how briefly?" Taking a step into the liaison's space, Sherlock focused his full attention on her. She trembled where she stood.

"I... No. I mean, yes, but only in a manner of speaking. I understand this is terribly upsetting, I do, but really, Mis- Doctor Watson should make a full recovery. Everything will be _fine._ "

"So you are an expert on matters of the heart? You understand all of... _This,_ do you?" Sherlock slammed his hand over John's name on the white board.

"Shhhhh," she tried to shush him even as she shook her head almost manically. Tears threatened her eyes.

"Where?"

"What?" Glancing over her shoulder for any possible assistance, the terrified woman took a small step back.

" _Where_ did it happen?"

"It was a trip... A school outing. They were, uhm..." She used the pause as an excuse to distance herself even more. "Ah, yes," she breathed a sigh of relief and laughed nervously when she found the note she was looking for. "The aquarium. They were at the London Aquarium." She offered a tremulous smile.

The air was forced from Sherlock's lungs in a great heave, and he stumble back until he could brace himself against the wall for support. " _Idiot._ " Balling his hands into tight fists, Sherlock pressed them to his eyes and groaned.

"I'm sorry?"

"John, you fucking idiot. Why? Why would you ever go back there? Why would you take your child there? You don't... You can't..." Panting for breath, Sherlock paced the width of the hallway. " _We_ can't handle this. This emotional..." He growled through clenched teeth.

"Sir, do you need me to..."

"Why are you still here?" He turned on the liaison once more.

"I... I'm assigned to Mister Wats- _Doctor..._ Doctor Watson's case."

"Leave. Now."

"I'm not supposed to. If I think harm might come to the patient, I'm supposed to call for help." She cleared her throat and attempted to look bold. Sherlock realized she'd taken her mobile from her pocket. He laughed, a terribly bitter, broken sound.

"You think I'm going to hurt John?" It was barely a whisper. Looking almost guilty, the liaison managed a slight shrug.

Sherlock shook his head sadly, and placed his hand on the doorknob. "Oh, it's too late for that."


	3. Sysiphean Task

It took talent Sherlock himself was not sure he could muster to act contrite enough to convince the patient liaison that he had well and truly calmed down. He was only concerned for his dear, _dear_ friend John. Could he really be held accountable for his emotions in this trying time?

The liaison patted his shoulder soothingly, handed him a packet of facial tissues and a card for a free coffee in the cantina, and nudged him into the room with a sympathetic smile.

With a roll of his eyes and a smug smirk, Sherlock tossed the tissue packet into the waste bin and tucked the card into his jacket pocket. He sniffed, ran one hand through his hair and pulled back the curtain with a flourish. "Oh, Jo- huuh..."

His breath was stolen once more, and he clung to the curtain for stability. His startled gaze was returned by the most arresting, alarmingly blue eyes, so familiar, and yet, so... So...

"Rosie," he barely breathed the name. Sherlock did the math. She was six. Six years and four months, three days, eighteen hours, and... He listened for the ticking of the clock... Forty-seven minutes old.

It was too much. Too much to take in. Mary's nose - thank the almighty being he never subscribed belief to for that. And chin. Curls, Mary. Hair shade, John. She chewed her lip as she looked up at him, both curious and concerned. Definitely John. Ears, John - that was okay. She held tight to a rather large storybook of some kind - fanciful. John. And her eyes, they were John's eyes, but... More. There was something... And intelligent, yes he could see the keenness in her. And that was both of them.

"Rosie," he repeated her name and took a step toward her.

"Who are you?" It was an innocent enough question. A genuine, curiosity-fueled inquiry. And it struck Sherlock to his core.

"I am," he cast a glance at John, asleep and ashen - hooked to a mess of tubes, cables, and monitors - and started again. "I use to be a friend of your father."

"You know my da?" She placed the book gingerly down and sat up on her knees. Sherlock stood very still as she assessed him, looking him up and down suspiciously. A difficult feat, to stand still, as hearing Rosie call John _da_ brought to the surface a rush of memories and emotions, all surrounding a tiny bundle wrapped in pink fluff he'd been too afraid to get near to for days. He'd never let himself truly forget Rosie's first days and months of life. Not really. Not even when John had asked him to forget them all.

It was his Sysiphean task. The impossible burden he bore.

"I do. Did. I did know him, yes." He fumbled his words and she narrowed her eyes at him. Mary, down to the ground.

"You're not a doctor," she fairly accused him.

"No. No I am not. But, how did you know that?" Sherlock let himself ease a little further into the room.

"My da knows lots of doctors. I've never seen you before," she shrugged.

"That's a good reason. A sound deduction," he nodded.

"Were you a soldier?" She scooted forward, excited by the prospect.

"Hmm, nope. Guess again."

"My da says I should never guess. I should always take my time and know." Rosie looked at John and swallowed hard.

"Your da is a very wise man," Sherlock exhaled slowly and attempted a small smile.

Rosie nodded solemnly. "My da is sick." She blinked up at him with those familiar eyes full of fear, with tears threatening to spill over.

"Yes, he is," Sherlock nodded, and he sat quickly in the chair next to hers. "But they tell me he's going to be right as rain very soon. He just needs to rest."

Rosie nodded and sniffed, though the tears still trailed down her cheeks. "I haven't got a mum."

Sherlock had to look away. Blinking rapidly, he wished he'd kept the tissue packet. "Then we'll just have to make sure nothing ever happens to your da ever again, won't we?"

The little girl leaned against his arm and rested her head on his shoulder. "What's your name?"

"Are you finished deducing?" Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle. Once again he was overcome by entirely too much input, by the sudden shift of conversation that surprised even him.

"You can't deduce a person's name," Rosie sighed and wiped her face on his sleeve. A small price to pay, he decided.

"Can't you?"

"Can _you_?"

"Hmm," Sherlock nodded. "I deduce that your name is actually Rosamund Mary, but everyone calls you Rosie." Rosie nodded, her eyes alight with amazement. "And my name is Sherlock Holmes." He said the words carefully, slowly, judging John's daughter for any sort of response. He was not disappointed.

With eyes wide and her tiny perfect hands gripping his sleeve, Rosie looked up at him in awe. "Are you?"

"I am," he smiled at her.

"My da telled me stories about you. You're very brave. And very smart. And I want to be a 'tective like you. But da says I have to wait 'til I'm big enough."

Sherlock closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. He released a shuddering breath, and then another, before he could trust himself to look this perfect union of John and Mary in the eyes once more.

"Your da is very brave and smart as well."

"He was a soldier and he is a doctor. I know. He's a very good da." Rosie nodded resolutely, though Sherlock saw concern in her eyes. Concern for him. Watson through and through.

Sherlock took a deep breath. He already knew the answer to the question he was about to ask. "Did he ever tell you the stories about the times he helped me catch the bad guys?"

"No!" Rosie looked in wonder from Sherlock to John, and back again. "My da was a 'tective too?"

"He was. And he helped me so much. Saved my life a few times. Hmm, more than a few, actually."

" _My_ da?" Rosie climbed from her chair into Sherlock's lap. He sat stunned, blinking down at her as she stared up at him expectantly.

"Ah, uhm, yeah. Yes. Your da."

"Tell me a story about my da being a 'tective with you? Please?"

"I... I really ought to..." Sherlock was just formulating a way to extract himself from the chair when the door to the room opened.

"Rosie, love, I've got cocoa and I found some of those biscuits your da always says no abou- Oh! Uhm..." Molly stumbled to a stop and dropped the packet of biscuits.

"Auntie! This is da's friend. _Sherlock!_ He's a real 'tective. The one da telled me stories about. And guess what?" She slid to the floor to retrieve the biscuits and quickly climbed back into Sherlock's lap. "He says da was too! Isn't that funny?"

"It's lovely dear." Molly worried her lip with her teeth, glanced at John, and gave a nervous hum. "Here, Rosie. Let me set up your tea, right here, next to your da. See you can use this special wheelie table." Rosie clapped her hands and climbed back into her own chair. "Da's _friend_ and I need to have a chat, okay?"

Rosie nodded and tucked into her snack with enthusiasm. Just like her da... John. Just like John. Sherlock shook his head and stood to speak with Molly at the end of John's bed.

"Sherlock... You know, you do don't you? I never liked how things were left between you and John," Molly whispered. Sherlock sighed and nodded. "And you know John still hasn't..."

"Yes. I am well aware, thank you," Sherlock huffed.

"Then why? Why are you here? Why come around now? Today of all days?"

"The hospital called me. John never changed his emergency contact, and they..." He shrugged. "They contacted me."

"Well, it was a mistake, I'm sure." Molly gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh, Sherlock. No. I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

"I know what you meant. And don't you think I thought the same thing?" There was no heat to his words at all, only sorrow. "I was worried... He should never be alone."

Molly nodded and brushed some hair back from her face. "The school called me. I'm listed... for Rosie." She swallowed hard.

"Right, well, I should..." Sherlock pulled his coat around him, and frowned. "I..."

"Stay." It was so faint that they barely heard it, then followed by a cough and a pained groan.

"Da!" Rosie burst into tears and nearly sent her cocoa tumbling as she scrambled from her chair. "Da!" She attempted to climb onto the bed, but Molly caught her up in her arms first.

"Shh... I'm here, darling," John held out his arm to her. "Be very careful, yeah? Your old da is in pretty bad shape."

"John, no. The doctor said..."

"Molly, I don't think you understand how much I need to hold my daughter right now." He looked from Sherlock to Molly, and settled on Rosie with a smile. "You'll be gentle, won't you love?"

"Da," stretching out her arms, Rosie whimpered and wiggled, almost toppling Molly.

"John Watson, you are a stubborn man," Molly shook her head and helped Rosie curl against John's side. It was evident neither father nor daughter was happy with the arrangement, but it was the only compromise Molly would allow.

Rolling his eyes, John kissed the top of Rosie's head. "How are you, darling?"

"Da," she cried into his side. He shushed her and held her the best that he could, but the effort quickly wore him out. Molly valiantly kept a brave face as she stood at the ready to relieve John. Sherlock fidgeted in the corner, trying to hide in the shadows.

"Rosie, love? Would it be all right if Auntie takes you home, so you can have some dinner and a bath?"

"And you'll come too, right da?" Rosie sat up, but she held tight fistfuls of John's gown.

"No, darling. Not tonight. Da has to stay here for a few more days yet. I have to get all better first." His smile did nothing to mask his heartache. Always a terrible liar.

"No! No no no," with renewed tears, she attempted to throw herself on top of John, but Molly caught her first.

"C'mon, love. Da needs his rest." Molly heaved the sobbing girl to her hip.

"Da," Rosie whined.

"I know, love. I know. I will miss you so much," John sniffed and blinked back his own tears, "but Auntie will bring you back here first thing in the morning."

"Promise?" Rosie mumbled into Molly's shoulder.

"Promise," Molly kissed her cheek. "Now let's get your coat and your books." Rosie tearfully gathered her things.

"Da," she looked up at him pitifully over the side of the bed. "Please. Please come home." Her voice still held a tremor.

"Soon, darling. Very soon. And then, maybe we'll take a holiday, yeah? Just you and me?"

Rosie sniffed and leaned into John's fingers rubbing soothing circles in her hair. "Da loves you Rosie, so much. You know that don't you?"

"Yes, da. And Rosie loves da so much." She couldn't help giggling at her own joke.

"There she is. There's my happy girl," John stifled a yawn and nodded to Molly.

"Come along love," Molly held out her hand. "So, should we have ice cream or chocolate cake for dinner?" Molly winked.

"Ice cream!" Rosie laughed.

"Hey now!" John called after them.

"'Bye da!" Rosie threw him a kiss. "We're having ice cream for dinner!"

John chuckled and reached for the plastic cup of ice chips. Sherlock strode over quietly and slid it across the table to him.

"'Ta." John took a sip and let his eyes fall shut. "Why..."

"They called me... You didn't update your emergency contact..." Sherlock stood perfectly still, waiting.

"Guess I've not been in hospital since..." John took another sip. His hand shook as he tried to place the cup on the table, and Sherlock instantly reached out to catch it.

"Sorry," Sherlock ducked his head.

"Sherl-" Another cough wracked John's body, and he groaned. Sherlock held the cup for him to drink again, and John nodded his thanks.

"John, I... You asked me to stop smoking."

"What?" John blinked in surprise at the non sequitur.

"Smoking is the leading cause of heart disease." Sherlock refused to make eye contact.

"Yes. For the one doing the smoking."

"The effects of second hand smoke..."

"Oh, for godsake, Sherlock. This is in no way your fault." John sighed and laid back in an attempt to get more comfortable. "Family history of dodgy hearts. Always worried Harry's drinking would do it. Turns out, all it took was a trip to the aquarium."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Why did you go back there, John? Why would you?"

"Please, just leave it..." He laid his hand over his eyes.

With a quick nod, Sherlock straightened his coat. "I should..."

"You took the blame for too many things, Sherlock. You let me blame you..."

"No you... You were always too forgiving of... everything. I never considered your feelings, or what you needed at all." Sherlock took a step nearer John's bed.

"That doesn't even make sense." John glanced at his IV drip. "Damn." He shook his head. "I needed to see it. To remember, so I could get some perspective. Sort it all out... So perhaps we might..."

Sherlock tried not to appear too hopeful. "We?"

"Soon, yeah? I just need..." John yawned again.

"Of course, John. You should sleep. Recuperate."

"I'll be all right. _Fine._ Easily managed with the right choices and proper meds." John was quickly losing the battle to stay awake.

"Mrs. Hudson probably already knows. Can I call Lestrade for you?" Sherlock fidgeted with his scarf.

"Mhmm. S'fine."

"I could call Mycroft if there's anything..."

John shook his head and frowned. "Not ready to deal with that pompous arse yet. One Holmes at a time." He shifted slightly and sighed. "You could come again... Rosie would like it if you did." His eyes drifted shut before he could see the slight twitch of a smile on Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock tugged his collar up and turned to leave. "Rest well, John."

* * *

*** A/N ***

That's it. I'm not really planning a sequel or an elaboration, so to speak. It'll depend on what the rest of the season brings, and what, of any, plot ideas come my way.


End file.
